Such exasperating self-pity. It lit a spark of fury in Richard. “Oh no, this feud isn’t done with you yet, boy. Why not speed up its work? Cut your own throat and jump into that grave with your mother.” He unsheathed his sword and said to the gravediggers, “Stop your work. Let him jump in.”
They halted, stunned, their shovels stilled in midair. Will gaped at Richard.
“Go on, do it,” Richard said, prodding him with the flat of his sword. “You’re just a walking dead man. You might as well get it over with. Tumble right in beside Joan. There’s plenty of room.”
They all looked at him like he was a lunatic.
Richard sighed, his anger spent. He jerked his chin in a command to the gravediggers to leave them. They backed off, mumbling, “Yes, my lord,” then turned and quickly walked away.
Richard raised the sword, touching the tip to Will’s throat. “Hate kills, as surely as does this blade. Kills the spirit, Will. If you keep stoking your hate, the feud just claims another victim. You. Is that what you want? To let this thing kill you as it has killed your mother?”
“I’ll live,” he growled.
“No, you won’t. There’s only one way to save yourself. Forgive Justine.”
“Forgive?” Rage flashed in Will’s eyes. “She’s a liar. Everything about her is a lie.” He chopped the blade away with his arm. “And so are you. You knew about her. All these years.”
Richard steadied the sword. “She didn’t lie about her love for you. That’s why she was so afraid of telling you.”
“With good reason!”
“To reject love is to be a killer. So the damnable feud kills Justine, too. Listen to me, Will. Bury this madness along with your mother. Pardon Justine. And let yourself live.”
The welfare of England was no respecter of Richard’s grief. That very afternoon, back at his house, he was preparing to ride to Baynard’s Castle for a meeting with the Earl of Pembroke about carrying out Elizabeth’s orders to fortify the Cinque Ports. The threat of war with Spain was very real. Heading for the stable, dragging his numb foot, he felt weighted with weariness, almost despair. Joan was dead. Justine missing. Will intractable. Elizabeth faced the fury of Spain. And this leg will soon drag me to my own grave.
“My lord, a message for you.” The footman had come from the house.
Richard unfolded the page. It read:
Dear my lord,
I must see you. It is urgent. I am in sore difficulty. I
pray you, come this evening to Kilburn Manor at
Chelsea, but do not let Sir Adam’s household see you.
Meet me in the new building where we can be alone.
Do not fail me, sir, or my life will be nothing.
Justine
“Gone?” Justine asked in dismay. She stood at the open door of Rigaud’s room in the Martin’s le Grand tenement, the pouch of money in her hand. The woman at the door, skinny but for the huge mound of her pregnancy, scowled.
“Gone.” She started to shut the door.
“Wait!” Justine pushed it to keep it open. “Gone where?”
“To hell, for all I care. The poxy churchmen took him. Good riddance, say I. Now slog off.” She slammed the door.
Justine turned away, trying to think. From dark cracks in doorways eyes peered at her. She slipped the purse she carried, bulging with the money, back into the folds of her cloak. Someone upstairs bawled a drunken song. Churchmen . . . did that mean the elders of the French Church? They had chastised Rigaud for his lechery and his chronic absence from services. They had warned him . . . of what? What was the punishment?
The moment the answer came to her, she hurried down the stairs. Her route took her straight across the city, eastward on Cheapside, then south on Gracechurch Street as it led to London Bridge. The seaweedy smell of the river rolled to meet her, and just before the bridge she turned onto Thames Street. She hastened past the Billingsgate fishmongers hawking their catches to housewives and kept on east to the Custom House Quay. The church bells of All-Hallows-by-the-Tower were clanging, and the Tower itself rose above the rooftops, its gray stone walls and turrets glaring over the city and its river traffic.
She was almost out of breath from hurrying as she made her way through the throng on the quay. Was she too late? The quay was a noisy mass of merchants and their agents, pie sellers and pamphleteers, sailors and whores. Reaching the water’s edge, she felt a rush of panic. So many ships! Only low-masted vessels could go west beyond the bridge, so here the big ships lay at anchor, crammed together in the Pool. Galleons, carracks, galleasses, caravels, all with bright flags and pennons fluttering from their shrouds, the flags of France, Portugal, Sweden, Poland. Seagulls wheeled and swooped, screeching their impatient cries. She spotted a French ship with several wherries nudging its side. Men in the wherries were loading crates, barrels, and sacks aboard the ship, and the French crew were taking on the cargo and readying canvas and lines as though preparing to embark. Justine pushed through to a spot where busy clusters of men were carting and sorting more cargo to go out to the ship. A man sat slumped on a barrel, his back to her, his hands bound at his back. A prisoner. Justine’s spirit soared. It was Rigaud. She’d been right. He was being deported home to France. She shouldered through to him.
“Monsieur Rigaud!”
He looked up, over his shoulder. His nose was bloody, his cheek scraped. His eyes went wide as he recognized her.
A pock-faced man stepped into her path. “Halt there. What business have you with the prisoner?”
“I . . . I owe him money.”
Rigaud struggled to his feet.
The man pushed him down again, looking almost amused. “Your doxies pay you, do they, Frenchie? That’s a twist.” He chuckled, and so did another man standing guard over Rigaud.
“Please, may I have a word alone with him?” Justine handed the pock-faced man a half crown.
He took the coin and shrugged. “Why not?”
The two guards withdrew a few paces. It was enough for Justine.
“I have the money,” she told Rigaud. “Look.” She held up the fat purse. “Now, tell me who you saw with Alice in the church. You said you knew the man.”
He scoffed. “What’s the use? If you give me the money now, it’ll go straight into their pockets.” He jerked his blood-flecked chin at the two guards who were watching them, arms lazily crossed.
“I can send it to you,” she urged. “In France.”
“Ha. The devil alone knows where I’ll be.” He looked away as if done with her.
“Monsieur, please. Won’t you tell me? I will give you all of this and more for just one word. Just the name of the man who killed my friend.”
He regarded her for a long moment, a misty light coming into his eyes. “I’ll tell you what. Give it to Nan.”
“Who?”
“You saw her. Big with child.”
The skinny woman at the door? It surprised her. The woman had spat his name.
“I’ll miss her,” he said. “Give the money to her.”
“I shall.” The lead guard was starting to look impatient. “The name, monsieur,” she said. “Give me the name.”
A wherryman shouted a last call for loading his boat to go out to the ship. “That’s for me,” Rigaud said, getting wearily to his feet. “Adieu to Puritan-ridden England.” Then, bitterly, “Bonjour to priest-ridden France.”
It struck Justine that she had come for nothing. “You don’t know,” she said in dismay. “You don’t know who killed her. You only wanted the money.”
“Oh, I know,” he said quietly. “I sold him wine for years. I saw him strangle that girl. I ran so he wouldn’t see me. That was the last thing I needed, him looking to finish me off, too. He always was a prickly one. Liked a fine claret, but I never could sell him my Malmsey. Not good enough for the lord of Yeavering Hall.”
“Did you say . . . Yeavering Hall?” The thought of Isabel’s husband Carlos jolted her. Madness. Impossible.
/> “That’s right. For that’s the name. Sir Christopher Grenville. I’d heard he was dead. I’d been away so long. But Grenville is who I saw that day in Kirknewton church. He was very much alive. It was the girl who was dead.” Rigaud looked at her. “See that you give that money to Nan, won’t you?”
She heard no more words. Only clanging church bells. Shrieking gulls. In her head, in her horror, a roaring like the sea.
PART THREE
Elizabeth
24
The Children
I saw him strangle that girl. Rigaud’s words thrashed in Justine’s mind as the wherryman strained at his oars, making for Chelsea. The wind had kicked up choppy waves, and Justine gripped the gunwale for balance. The waves beat the boat and the Frenchman’s words beat at her: Sir Christopher Grenville . . . I saw him strangle that girl.
Absurd, her rational mind told her. Rigaud, of course, had made a terrible mistake. He was simply wrong. Justine was coming to Kilburn Manor to see her father, and a few words with him would clear up the hideous error. June fifth? he would tell her. I was sailing that day from France.
The wherry rocked as it came alongside the Kilburn Manor jetty and she climbed out, shivering so much she fumbled at the coins in her purse to pay the wherryman. The wherryman tipped his cap to her and pushed off to row back to the city. She was alone on the jetty. Winter’s late-afternoon shadows stretched across the river, trying to claim the land for dusk. She looked up at the old red brick manor house. She had spent the night there in a soft bed in a scented chamber and had not seen her father that morning before she’d set off to see Rigaud. Across the courtyard rose the new wing, imposing but deserted. Her father was camping there. Hiding out.
A crane startled her, lifting off the water with a noisy flapping of wings. She stared at the rings of ripples the bird left, breaking up as they met the confused waves. Kilburn Manor was such a solitary place here at the bend in the river where waterfowl fed among the reeds. It struck her that Elizabeth would be coming here tonight to discuss Mary’s abdication. An excellent place for the secret meeting. No one to see Elizabeth arrive.
Father arranged that well. That was a happy thought. He cares about Mary. Cares about me. Rigaud’s accusation is absurd.
Up the steps to the house she went, then across the muddy courtyard toward the new wing. The mild weather of the last days had melted the pristine Christmas snow. The lane of topiary felt like a tunnel rising out of the muck. She hastened through its shadows. Absurd, she told herself. Her father had barely remembered Alice when she had mentioned her murder. Besides, why would he have been anywhere near Yeavering Hall?
To simply see again the grand house that once was his? She remembered his anger: “It was stolen from me.”
No, it was absurd and Rigaud was confused. He had not seen her father for over a decade. He only thought he saw him in Kirknewton church.
Yet Rigaud had been so sure. He had known her father well, had personally sold him wine at Yeavering Hall. For years.
No, absurd. Strangle Alice? What possible reason could he have for such a savage act? Father will explain. He’ll scoff and say that poor Rigaud has been drinking too much of his own wine.
She reached the new building, cold inside, deserted, and climbed the wide staircase. Upstairs she opened the door to the lofty chamber where her father had comforted her yesterday beside the little coal fire. The room was abandoned. No sign of his makeshift camp at the hearth. His few belongings, the scatter of cushions, the coal fire, all had vanished. For a moment, standing in the chill darkness, it seemed to Justine that she might only have dreamed that he had been here.
No. She remembered his comforting words, his sympathetic embrace. Remembered him telling her Elizabeth was coming.
Back to the main house she went to seek Frances. Aunt Frances, she reminded herself. It was still hard to think of her as kin since she had avoided Frances for so long, not wanting any tie to another Grenville, wanting everyone to accept her as a Thornleigh. Now, with Will lost to her, everything was different. It gripped her like grief. She tried to take heart from the lesson she had learned, that her Grenville kin were the only people she could rely on. Her aunt. Her father.
She found Frances in her bedchamber. She had pushed open the green brocade bed curtains and stood sorting through a heap of objects dumped helter-skelter on the bed. Silver spoons, silver plates, ropes of pearls and jeweled rings, gem-studded goblets, silver candlesticks.
“Aunt, have you seen my father?”
Frances spun around, her hand flying to her heart. “Justine! Oh, you gave me a fright.”
Justine was surprised by her appearance. A frantic look in her eyes, her hair in disarray. Perhaps it was the stress of preparing to welcome Her Majesty to her house. Frances had always been high-strung. “Has he left for Bolton already? My father?”
“Bolton?”
“In the north. To see Mary. Help her prepare.”
“For what?”
“For going to France. I must see him before he leaves England.”
“Leaves? Good heavens, Christopher will never leave England. No, no, he just rode to Kingston. He’ll be back in time.” She wiped a hand across her brow sheened with sweat and went back to sorting through the pile, hastily packing objects into a satchel on the foot of the bed.
Never leave England? Justine knew that was not true, but she hesitated to press the point, for her aunt looked so oddly distracted, her actions almost manic. Was she ill? She watched her cram a silver salt cellar into the satchel. “Are you going somewhere? After the Queen’s visit?”
“After . . . ?” Frances started like a caught thief. She wrung her hands. “I know, Christopher said not to pack. Said it would look wrong. I understand. And of course gowns I can replace. But these precious things . . .” She caught sight of something on a table and cried, “Ah!” She hurried over to it and grabbed it, a jeweled casket. “My mother’s.” She tried to jam it into the satchel, but it was too large, the satchel too full. She threw up her hands in despair, then sank onto the bed. “So much to organize. I cannot keep it all in my head. The servants . . . well, nothing can be done about that. It’s the children . . . the children . . . they are my life!” She looked frightened and was fighting tears. “They will go to my friend, Lady FitzAlan. It’s all arranged. But not until later, Christopher says. Not until not until Elizabeth arrives. I promised him, no changes. But, oh dear God, to wait until the last moment . . .” She rubbed her brow. Her breathing was shallow. “Do I have time to take my little ones before he comes back? No . . . no, Christopher would be angry. And I know he’s right, but—” She suddenly stopped and gaped up at Justine. “You!” She jumped up. “You can take them!”
Justine was trying to follow the incoherent babble. “Katherine and Robert? To see your friend?” A social visit for the children? How could she think about such things with Rigaud’s words clanging in her mind! “I’m sorry but I cannot. I must see my father. You say he’ll be back this evening?”
“Of course. Soon. But I want the children out before he comes. Please, you must take them.”
“Perhaps your steward can take them. It’s urgent that I stay and see—”
“I cannot trust him! Not him, not any servant.”
“What? Why not?”
“Because he is not one of us. You are. Christopher says you are.” She clutched Justine’s hand. Frances’s hand felt so icy, Justine flinched. “He wants the best for you, Justine. And we all must trust each other now. It will be worth it, you’ll see. Once this is over and Mary is queen, our family will be restored. But for now, my children cannot stay here.”
“Mary . . . queen?” What was she talking about?
“Good heavens, Justine, what else do you think all this is about?”
“The meeting tonight, you mean? It’s because Mary is abdicating.”
Frances shook her head, a sly light in her eyes. “No, she’s not.”
A cold finger scraped up Justi
ne’s backbone. Why was Frances sending the children away? Was there some impending danger? And why was she packing her silver? She slid her hand free of Frances’s grip. “Aunt, what is going on?”
Frances spoke in a low voice that thrummed with excitement. “Plans are afoot.”
“Yes. Elizabeth is coming. But if not to discuss Mary’s abdication, then why?”
The sly look in Frances’s eyes deepened to satisfaction. “Because after tonight there will be no Elizabeth.”
Justine stared at her. Her mind emptied violently as if a plug had been pulled and everything she knew about herself flooded out. Will’s mother’s words rushed in. “The swamp that bred you, the crocodiles who whelped you . . . you cannot escape your tainted blood . . . your father, Christopher Grenville, a traitor . . . He plotted against our queen.”
She felt her legs might give out. Treason. Father. She groped for the bed-curtain to steady herself.
He’s going to kill Elizabeth.
“Justine? Are you all right?” Frances was regarding her warily, a frown creasing her brow, as if she suddenly realized she had said too much.
Justine’s heart was banging so hard, so high in her chest, she could not find breath to speak. Frances is his accomplice. They’re going to kill Elizabeth. Here. Tonight.
“Justine?” Frances stiffened.
Their eyes locked.
Justine saw that if she betrayed an inkling of her horror, Frances would see. Would know she was not one of them. Get out, she thought frantically. Get away from here. But if Frances suspected, she could call in servants to hold her.
She made herself let go of the curtain. There was only one way to get out. Pretend to go along.
“I had no idea,” she said, forcing steadiness into her voice. “About . . . dispatching Elizabeth. I wish Father had told me.”
Frances still seemed wary. “He thought it better that you didn’t know. Safer for us all. Since you’re so close to Lord and Lady Thornleigh.”
Justine’s heart bled. Father used me. The abdication message from Mary—a lie. His litany of the Thornleighs’ crimes—lies.
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